Homecoming
by Rb
Summary: A pretty short fic about Sora's father. ^_^


I was up really late at night, downloading various anime songs, and needed to write out something. The plot suggested? "Write a story with Sora and her father!" And here it is. ^_^ It's pretty rough, but to polish it off would lose something of its... uh, charm, I suppose. I don't own the characters, but I do own a whole lot of potentially illegal anime mp3s now, so I feel justified. ^_^

**Homecoming  
by Rb**

I ring the doorbell of the apartment in which they live and force myself to breathe. It's been too long since the last time I was here, way too long.  
  
There's a long pause after I ring the doorbell, and I debate to myself whether this is because no one's home or whether it's simply because no one's heard me. I drum my fingers on the wood of the door and play games with myself.   
  
_If I can recite the alphabet in one breath, I'll ring the doorbell again, but if I can't, then I'll stand on one foot and count backwards from fifty. And if still no one comes, then I'll ring...or maybe I won't._ Silly, stupid games that are only there to pass the time, to avoid the truth, to avoid actually having to think about who's on the other side of the door...  
  
But as luck (good or bad is debatable) would have it, the door creaks open and an unfamiliar young woman peers out around the crack.  
  
"Umm..." I say awkwardly. "Is this the Takenouchi residence?"  
  
"Yes, it is," she says guardedly. Something about her face, or maybe her hair, seems to click into place, but there are too few pieces for me to solve the puzzle.  
  
I'm silent as I wait.  
  
"Are you lost, sir?" she asks finally. "Can I do anything to help you?"  
  
Her kindness solves the puzzle.  
  
"Sora," I say. "Sora. It's me, your father."  
  
Sora's eyes widen. "Dad? What are you doing...um...here." She blushes a little, and opens the door for me. I walk in gratefully.   
  
The apartment is not how I remember it. A table that was here is now over there, I don't recognize the wallpaper or that vase, the pictures are different. Everything seems to have been changed in my latest absence.   
  
Well, not everything. There are still hundreds of flowers, in decorations, on display, in packages. A half-finished flower-arrangement is on the table.   
  
"Your mother still has her shop?" I say mildly.  
  
"Yes, she's working late tonight," Sora nods. "I also work there now." She motions to an empty chair, and I sit down in it.  
  
"What about soccer?"  
  
"I gave that up ages ago," she replies coolly. "Now I play tennis."  
  
"I thought you loved soccer," I said, startled.  
  
"Things change." Sora walks over to the table and starts arranging the half-finished flowers into stiff positions.  
  
"Yes, they do," I reply sadly.  
  
I hadn't seen my daughter in over a year -- and only briefly at that -- and it felt like I'd been gone for several lifetimes. When I'd last lived at home, some four or five years ago, Sora'd been something of a tomboy, always fighting with her mother and running to me to mediate arguments.  
  
And then work had picked up and I'd had to leave home to study. Sora couldn't go with me, she had to go to school. At first, she'd visit me frequently, on school breaks, and I'd come home almost as often, but then work brought me to different places for longer periods of time and I...  
  
I'd grown more and more distant as the time went by, and I'd lost touch, I'd lost years. And even this visit was going to be short, only a few days. Not enough time to reacquaint myself with my family... my family, which had changed and tightened from a family of three to a family of two without me even noticing it.  
  
_Maybe coming back here was a mistake. Maybe I should have stayed in a hotel. Maybe I should have just avoided this section of Tokyo altogether. _  
  
"Do you want some tea?" Sora asks suddenly.   
  
"Sure."  
  
I wait patiently as Sora prepares and brings in the tea. It smells good. Green tea, my favorite. I wonder if she remembered that it was my favorite. Rather cynically, I realize she probably hasn't.   
  
She hands me a steaming cup, and takes one for herself. At the same time, we both gently breathe on our tea to cool it. I look up at the same time that she does, and a smile appears on her face. An answering smile is undoubtedly on mine.  
  
"It's my favorite, too," my daughter says softly.


End file.
